


Meet Me Out of the Closet

by bellyuppo



Series: Of Angels and Demons [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Christianity, F/F, F/M, Female Lucifer, Fluff and Humor, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Lydia Martin/Lucifer, Religious References, Stiles POV, The Argent Family, The Hale Family, little bit of crack, this exploded wtf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-08 23:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13469085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellyuppo/pseuds/bellyuppo
Summary: If Peter Hale is any indication, God was high off his rocker when he namedangelsthe shining examples of holy grace and goodness.Peter does have his moments, though, and Stiles can't deny that those wings sure are pretty.





	Meet Me Out of the Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Part dos.
> 
> A special thank you to all the wonderful phenomenal comment-leavers and kudo-pressors who kept me typing when the spark threatened to die<3
> 
> As with the last installation, this _fic_ is purely _fiction_ with religious elements that are not meant to be taken seriously. If you see that difficult to undertake throughout the duration of your perusal, please click gently the lovely back button in some such corner of your browsing page. Thank you.
> 
> Note: I made Lucifer out of a lady character from canon. Won't tell you who it is though. Also some bro Sciles.

_“I could always decapitate him.”_

Lucifer’s dulcet voice twines through the wood of the door.

Stiles rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t break position, shoulders straight and hands clasped behind his back, a good inch from leaning against the stone of the wall. The door to the office is closed, and for all that it hardly does anything to prevent him from hearing what’s being decided of his latest failure, he’s already itching to get out of here and stew in his frustrations back at his apartment in the Seventh Circle.

_“Fair. But even discounting the recent string of...shortcomings, he’s still your most lucrative contractor and you know it.”_

Thank Dante for Lydia Martin.

His superior officer she may be, but Lydia looks after her underlings with all the vengeful ferocity of a Fury. Stiles has worshipped the itty-bitty points of her lethally whetted stilettos for it on more than one occasion.

He’s never regretted it.

Lucifer doesn’t answer right away, and Stiles does not need to be inside that room to know she’s drumming her chin with two blood-stained nails and that ridiculous smolder in her eyes that the Incubi have collectively plastered all over their bedroom walls while Stiles just thinks makes her look like a dick.

_“Right. Fine,”_ she says finally, signature pomp resonating with a deep timbre. _“He lives another century. But bring me results, Martin, or it’s your ass on the line.”_

_“Have I ever let you down, Lucifer?”_ Lydia croons.

Stiles silently begs them to hold off until he’s out of hearing range.

_“No, and good thing you haven’t. It would be such a shame to kill you. I’d miss you too much, well, parts of you, anyway.”_

Nope, too late.

His brows crowd into a single uninterrupted line at that leer, and Stiles really wants to retch.

Where’s a bucket when you need one- oh look.

_“I should sue you for workplace harassment.”_

He picks up his find. Yes, this should do nicely.

_“Oh? And pray tell who would convict me? I’m the Devil, dear, I’m about as_ harassing _as things get down here.”_

He welcomes the bubbling boil of nausea in his gut, and bestows his offering into the hole with glee.

_“Nevertheless. Afford me the respect I’m due, your_ Highness. _Or you_ will _regret it.”_

There. He feels so much better. And now no one can say demons don’t know how to _let loose_ when circumstances demand them of it.

(Not that anyone ever _has,_ but still. Double score.)

_“Lovely. Dinner tonight?”_

It sounds like they’re about wrapping it up in there too.

Which is just as well, he thinks cheerfully, wiping at the corner of his mouth with one thumb as he slots the sloshing horn back into the sculpted hands of a marbled Morningstar majestically blowing her brethren to arms.

_“Pick me up at eight,”_ Lydia orders perfunctorily.

Lucifer smartly doesn’t argue. _“Good, good. Now get out.”_

_“Better watch that tone.”_ The door opens as Lydia glides out, throwing the last word over her shoulder. “Don’t want any trouble swallowing this evening when I have to rip out your tongue.”

There’s a brief moment before the hinges squeak closed where the gap is just wide enough for Stiles to glimpse the near ravenous look within his boss’ boss’ red, and flame-emblazoned eyes. He’s tempted to gag – _again –_ but decides he’s exhausted enough retribution, and settles for refusing to make the final connection as to what else the Queen of Hell will be _swallowing_ besides dinner this evening.

He turns to grin guilelessly at the sharply dressed figure, who doesn't even grace him with a suspicious glance before sashaying like a champion down the carpeted floor of the hallway. Stiles makes petty noises under his breath at the lack of response, but obligingly says nothing until they turn the corner and he’s being propelled against the wall and held there with one flawlessly manicured hand as a pair of keen eyes that miss nothing rake up and down the length of his body.

“Finished?” he chirps once Lydia’s completed her once-over.

She snorts, dusting her hands free, presumably of all the drama Stiles has recently hauled into her life by the armful.

“No thanks to _you_. If you can’t keep it in your pants, Stilinski, then either date him or break it off.” She sniffs haughtily, before sneering, aiming a disgusted glance at the statue stinking up the entire hall. “On second thought, just break it off. I don’t need the blackmail from seeing you trip over yourself to bring him dead cats or poppies or whatever the hell children do these days.”

Stiles smirks at her. “Your age is showing,” he says, before pausing, running that over again in his head.

He frowns, pointing out, “And that assumes I even _like_ him, which I _don’t.”_

Lydia looks at him like he’s a few petals too short of an Asphodelus flower. “The way your idiocy reaches new heights every time you speak astounds me.”

Stiles avoids her eyes, running a hand through his hair. “Now you’re just being mean.”

She doesn't even stumble. “Then why don’t you ask your pet turkey to come and kiss it better?”

“He’s not a turkey,” Stiles defends, offended on behalf of God’s feathery children for reasons he will not examine. “And if I must repeat myself: I. Do not. _Like_ Peter Hale.”

There are teeth – very, very sharp teeth –  beneath the perfect veneer of innocence when she says: “Hale? Dear Cerberus, who said anything about him? I was talking about that insipid _McCall_ you always like to gossip with like a pair of my great-grandmother.”

Stiles freezes.

“I- You _tricked_ me, you- you _demoness!”_

He gapes, gobsmacked. There is a hard pressure in his thoracic cavity that feels a little like denial and much too vulnerable. He rubs at that spot, toward the center and slightly to the left, until he realizes what he's doing and jerks his hand down, biting his lip.

Lydia sighs, turning her eyes toward purgatory with a long suffering look. She appears thoroughly done with the Fallen in her life – of which there are only three anyway, Lydia, come on – that being her mother, Stiles himself, and that big-headed nincompoop he hopes is marinating in the stench of his barf-crement as they speak.

Her voice isn't unkind, as she says, “Figure out what you want, Stiles. Just don’t be surprised if he doesn’t turn out the way you want him to, alright?”

Stiles debates the chances of him winning if he argues against that, when Lydia raises one warning and perpetually irked eyebrow, and he deflates, slumping.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks Lydia.”

She twirls on her heels, click-clacking her way toward the palace escalators.

“And for fuck’s sake, do your job. Your quarter sales are approaching the negatives. _Jesus.”_

Stiles sulks. “…Shut up.”

-

“She thinks you like me?”

_“No,”_ he says quickly.

As funny and mildly offensive as the horrified grimace on Scott’s face is, Stiles concurs on a level he will never fully be able to put into words.

“She _pretended_ she thought I liked you until I told her – implied, really _–_ that I liked Peter. Peter _Hale._ At which point she told me that I was being a moron and should pull my brain out of my ass.”

Scott blinks. “She said that?”

Stiles waves away the important parts. “With embellishment, Scottie. With embellishment.”

“Oh,” Scott says. His brow wrinkles. “And she thinks you should tell Peter? That you like him?”

“Not in so many words. But yeah, that was the gist of it.”

“Huh.”

“So.” He picks at a hangnail. “What do _you_ think I should do?”

Scott shrugs helplessly, “What do you want me to say?”

Stiles throws blades of grass at his face, thin green strips anxiously torn into slices that tumble in the air before sinking pitifully a few inches from his fingers. “That you agree? Disagree? Or something? You’re my friend, bro. Convince me to do something crazy, for once in your grievously wing-tipped life.”

Scott retaliates by smiling winningly, and Stiles knows he’s recounting all the long days and longer nights that Stiles spent comforting him after another flying lesson gone wrong.

Stiles regrets ever telling him that bent primaries are nothing to be ashamed of. That being bent means you get to fit in all of life’s craziest angles.

(He doesn’t, really.)

“I can’t tell you how to live your life,” Scott says honestly. “ _Especially_ not your love life. And it’s not like you’re going to listen to me anyway if it isn’t exactly what you want to hear.”

Stiles ignores everything he does not want to hear.

“I think I’ve spent too much time with you. You sound like Lydia. She’s contaminated you via diffusion or osmosis or, no wait, that’s water. Diffusion then. She’s tainted you through diffusion.”

Scott snorts, already used to his quirks.

“For what it’s worth, I think you should do it.”

Stiles stills, going quiet.

“…Yeah?”

Scott nods earnestly.

“Tell Peter, Stiles. Demon-angel relationships aren’t common yet, but they're not unheard of.”

A scoff worms its way up his nose, because that’s about the least encouraging thing Stiles has ever heard.

It doesn’t quite make it out – because Scott may not be the sharpest feather in the nest, which aren’t sharp at all to begin with, but he tries and that’s sincerely more than he’s ever gotten from the majority of the cloud-dwelling motherfuckers up there, plus it would make Scott sad and Stiles can’t deal with guilt piled on top of the steaming mess of his current emotions – so it just gets stuck up there instead.

He sneezes.

Then says, “You know, it’s so cute how you both like to play up that whole angel-and-a-demon-on-Stiles’-shoulder thing, when you’re both just the worst enablers.”

Scott laughs between his sniggers like he doesn’t know exactly what Stiles is talking about. “What?”

Stiles shakes his head. “The worst. And I actually have to listen to you. Because you’re my _friend.”_

At that, Scott sobers as if he’s reminded of Stiles’ steadily fraying sanity.

“Seriously, though. You should tell him. Just look at me, man: nontraditional couple for eighteen years and still going strong.”

But of course it doesn’t last long.

The tips of Scott’s ears go aflutter as a grin bearing the likeness of rainbows and sweet baby animals adorns his lips. Stiles heaves to his feet because he is not listening to another serenade _a la_ Scott-cupidshothimlovesick-McCall about the wonders of dating the Antichrist’s granddaughter, no matter how grateful he is for the support.

(Even after all these years, the logistics make his head spin. Because Scott. _Angel._ Allison. **_Antichrist’s granddaughter._**

Scott’s happy though, and Stiles applauds his contribution to anarchy.)

Scott looks up at him, startled.

Stiles smiles down at him brightly.

“Hey, that’s true. I mean if no one castigated _you_ over dating a human, then no way are they going to lynch, torture, and kill me if I go out with Peter.”

The seconds it takes Scott to process this are blessedly silent.

“Wha-? _Wait_. What do you mean-“

And Stiles is a demon, through and through.

“Thanks Scottie! I know I can always count on you!”

“Just a second, that’s not what I-”

So he can’t help but enjoy the distress and chaos, perhaps a bit more than is best for Scott’s mental health.

“You’re a true friend!”

“Wait, I- _Stiles!“_

But Scott can deal. He’s the best friend of a fallen angel, after all.

-

“Hale.”

“…Stiles. I’m beginning to think you don’t _want_ to remember my name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fallen=fallen angel=one classification of demons. Ignore the non logic please.  
> Liked it? Loved it? Hated it? Please leave a review. Thanks:)


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